


Traffic and Weather

by Nidor_and_Petrichor



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: But It's Still Super Dangerous, Everything in Night Vale Can and Will Kill You, Government Research, M/M, Night Vale Isn't That Weird, Radon Canyon, Real World Problems, Strexcorp is Evil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:14:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nidor_and_Petrichor/pseuds/Nidor_and_Petrichor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil Palmer is unflappable and unshakeable, a man secure with himself and his place in the world. He is a television news journalist, and nothing is going to change him, his mind, or his way of life. </p><p>The most dangerous thing about Night Vale isn't the snakes, the spiders or the heat. Carlos is slowly discovering that the town itself is full of ill-kept secrets that nobody wants to do anything about, and that fact might just be slowly killing them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exits to Freeways

_As the radioman says, “It is five am_  
 _and the sun has charred the other side of the world and come back to us  
_ _and painted the smoke over our heads an imperial violet.”_

_It is five am, and you are listening  
_ _to Los Angeles._

_(“[Screenwriter's Blues](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mR9WJSX9pnU)” by Soul Coughing)_

* * *

  **PROLOGUE**

Upon leaving California, Carlos had vowed to keep his radio dial at 89.9 for as long as possible. KCRW's signal reached well past the point he'd expected to lose it, but somewhere near the Mojave Preserve it finally became more static than sound and he'd switched it off, opting for silence in its absence. For hours now he's been listening only to his own thoughts and the steady _shhhush_ of his wheels, the car's hybrid engine barely making a whisper.

The trip from Los Angeles to Night Vale is long enough that it ceases to be comprised of streets or turns, becoming instead miles and hours that all fade into one another as the early morning fades into midday which, in turn, fades softly into night. Highways become a kind of physical algebra, composed not of asphalt but of letters and numbers: CA-101, CA-134, CA-210, carry the remainder, I-25, I-40... and, at last, US-89, divided by US-800.

Route 800 yawns away into the seemingly-empty Painted Desert, meandering along the edges of reservations and national parks. A straight line would have been faster and easier both to drive and construct, but instead it winds and twists in a way that suggests huge, immovable obstacles blocking its path, despite there being little other than flat scrubland and low mesas as far as the eye can see.

He briefly considers taking the tangent and going offroad to cut time, but he's sure the red sand would wreak havoc on the CRV's undercarriage and he doubts there's a trustworthy mechanic anywhere around these parts. There _are_ tiny shacks surrounded by massive towers of sun-worn tires, seemingly placed at random throughout the barren landscape, but they are all empty and seem to be abandoned.

It's just as he's questioning this as a business model – he hasn't seen another vehicle for the better part of a hundred miles – that he spies a glint in the distance, followed immediately by another, and another: a sea of windshields sparkling and shimmering, a car lot catching the waning evening sun.

With the outskirts of a town looming on the horizon and an absence of road signs to tell him which one it is, he turns the radio on once more. He sets it to scan, hoping to tune in to a transmission that can tell him what's happening here, and whether he's finally arrived.

There's nothing to pick up.

* * * 

Unlike most small towns where the interstate will turn temporarily into a Main Street, Night Vale is set back a half-mile or so from Route 800. Carlos slows the car to pull off, heading past the car lot and a few scattered homes, on towards the heart of the city. When he finally reaches the first stop light, his foot feels strange and leaden on the brake, his mind and body having grown accustomed to constant forward motion after driving for so long.

He makes a stop by the realtor's office to get his keys, and is told to swing by City Hall to pick up his New Citizen Welcome Packet before they close for the evening. A pushy curly-haired woman at the desk makes him fill out a stack of paperwork in triplicate before handing him a binder of information, an orange poncho and a sternly worded suggestion-which-sounded-like-a-demand that he hold a press conference as soon as possible to introduce his team of scientists to the town.

He thanks her politely and says that he will see what he can do. He's not much for drawing attention to himself unnecessarily, but a press conference might be a good way to show the town that they're working for a common purpose, not lurking the shadows conducting elicit experiments, as people are often prone to expect of scientists. He doesn't want to be seen as a threat, as an outsider – he wants to work _with_ the people here, to learn all that he can.

A few minutes and a couple of turns later he's found the building he's managed to lease. The pizza parlor next door is crowded, the happy hum of customers leaking out of the open windows and doors, but the small parking lot adjacent to the lab is empty; he's the first one here. The rest of the team won't be caravanning in with their equipment until tomorrow around mid-day, but Carlos elects to unpack his personal belongings before exploring.

The building had once been an off-campus laboratory belonging to Night Vale Community College, but after the science departments had scaled back, the school carefully cleaned and shuttered it. It's been empty for at least three years, but the ground-floor lab is in good shape and the second-story apartments, originally intended for visiting faculty, are still partially furnished, if a bit stuffy and dusty.

Given the first pick of rooms, which are all functionally identical, he opts for the one with westward facing windows through which he can see the final rays of sunset. There's a small yard on this side, overgrown with weedy grass, and the next-closest building is several hundred yards distant, across a few dark or empty lots. Despite being in the middle of a decently-sized town – possibly large enough to be considered a small city – the light pollution is minimal, and the sky is stunning and clear, strewn with stars.

Carlos can't remember the last time he saw stars.

Unpacking the car is quick, as he doesn't have much with him in the way of belongings. It didn't seem prudent to bring anything bulky or extraneous, since it's uncertain exactly how long he'll be staying. The funding is guaranteed for two years but that never seems to mean a whole lot, at least in his, albeit somewhat limited, experience. He could be here a month, he could be here a year – there's no way to know at this point what the future will hold.

Once his suitcases and boxes have been moved inside, he retrieves the keys to the lab to take a look around.

The set-up is just as promised: everything is tidy, but clearly fallen into a state of disuse. He dusts off and plugs in the biological samples refrigerator to begin the cooling process, and pokes through the drawers and filing cabinets that have been left behind. The outlets and plumbing all seem to be in decent working order, although there are a few burnt-out bulbs here and there. There is surprisingly little in the way of evidence of the previous tenants: there is not a single dead fern or abandoned take-out receipt to be found. Everything is in order, there are no emergencies to deal with. He'll pick up some supplies in the morning when he makes a grocery run but for now he's exhausted. 

He pulls himself back upstairs and sprawls across the bare mattress, shoes still on, foregoing dinner for a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting some things into the form of a semi-real-world AU. Not so much with the magic or surrealism, but some Night Vale-eqsue looming dangers nevertheless.
> 
> This is the first fic I've ever posted while in-progress and is thus a bit of an experiment. As always, any feedback, in public or private, is enthusiastically welcomed!


	2. Orange Colored Sky

_I was humming a tune_  
 _Drinking in sunshine_  
 _When out of that orange-colored view_  
 _Wham! Bam! Alakazam!  
_ _I got a look at you_

_(“[Orange Colored Sky](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-6QknAOsVo)” by Nat King Cole)_

* * *

The next day is a whirlwind of cleaning, presenting to the public, and gently unpacking thousands of dollars of specialized research equipment. By the time everything is organized and arranged the team is starving. The decide to trek next door for dinner, both due to the convenience of the location and because Big Rico's looks like the kind of place a bunch of sweaty, dirty, tired scientists can unwind without getting a second glance.

The inside is just about as expected: a television on the wall shows a static-laced feed of what appears to be a police procedural, the food looks greasy and filling, and the whole place has the small-town aura of being a default social center. What seems to be a cluster of elderly regulars fills the bar, while the booths and tables are surprisingly crowded with families and college students, all talking loudly over one another.

The six scientists manage to snag a booth in the back, and a waitress comes by promptly to take their drink orders. As they begin sipping their beer, taking in the new surroundings, somebody shouts loud enough to be heard over the general din, “Hey! It's almost six o'clock!”

Immediately ears perk up and heads swivel towards the TV, where the bartender is carefully balanced on a chair, stretching an arm upward to click through channels. Carlos, who is seated facing away from the bar, has to crane around to see what's happening. The set looks old enough that he can't be sure whether the remote control has been lost, or whether it had even existed in the first place.

“Alright, folks,” the bartender booms, leaving the television in the middle of a commercial break and clambering back down. “Last chance for another brew before it begins!”

A few patrons scramble up to him, ordering enough bottles or shots for their friends and then carefully walking armloads of alcohol back to their tables. Chairs squeak and shuffle as the entire establishment adjusts in order to better see the screen.

Carlos checks the little date indicator on his watch. It's too early for football season, basketball has just wrapped for the year, and he didn't think there was a baseball team worth mentioning anywhere in the state. Maybe one of the local college teams was playing? The turn out to support them is pretty good. He swirled his beer thoughtfully. At least it seems like a tight-knit community. As long as they ingratiate themselves, that should make their research much easier.

The assembled crowd cheers as the bartender un-mutes the television, a snippet of electronic piano and snare sounding through the tinny speakers. Carlos peers over his shoulder again to see a simple title card proclaiming this to be the Evening News with Cecil Palmer.

That was... not what he had expected.

The station logo cuts away to reveal a news set. It's simple and sparse – none of the fancy monitors, interactive displays, or scrolling updates that Carlos is used to; this is a distinctly lower-budget affair than the big city provided. There is a man on the screen wearing a tie, but no blazer. He is maybe in his mid-thirties, sitting behind a desk and looking extremely comfortable to be precisely where he is. Everything about him seems well put-together, with a playful glint in his eye and what Carlos has to admit is a terribly charming smile.

“Hello, dear viewers, and welcome... to the Night Vale Community News Hour,” the man says, his voice surprisingly deep and resonant. He pauses, as if aware that the pizza-eating masses are hooting their approval and, collectively, taking a swig of their drinks. “In our top story this evening, local billionaire Marcus Vansten was once again arrested for indecent exposure, after allegedly strolling through the new municipal dog park while completely nude.”

There are shrieks of laughter and several high-fives. Somebody chalks a tally onto the wall, although it's unclear what, exactly, is being counted there.

“The park opened to the public this morning, at an event in which Vansten himself was a guest of honor and assisted in cutting the ceremonial ribbon. Already there have been several concerning reports of indecent behavior in and around the area, including – but not limited to – the alleged incident with Mister Vansten.

“Children and those with delicate sensibilities are encouraged to stay away from the dog park until further notice. I repeat: stay _away_ from the dog park.”

A few stragglers enter the bar as the news wears on, greeted warmly by the those already inside. Chairs are pulled up to already-full tables, and children are set on laps to make more room.

The newly-transplanted scientists exchange increasingly extreme looks as it becomes ever more apparent that not only is Night Vale a hotbed of the most absurd kind of goings on and community gossip, but that the news itself is a kind of all-town social occasion and drinking game.

It's easy enough to pick up on the rules, which seem universally agreed upon, although they don't appear to be written anywhere visible. Every time the anchor addresses the camera with the words, “dear viewers” everybody drinks; at a mention of the much-larger rival town, Desert Bluffs, there is a cacophony of booing, and more drinking; when the actual reporting is interrupted by an editorial about the nature of existence everybody grows quiet and contemplative – and then drinks deeply.

The last of these happens with a statistically staggering frequency, since Carlos is fairly certain that most news shows contain exactly zero such asides. Is the news here like this every evening? The southwest United States has a chronic cirrhosis problem, he knows, but even this seems a bit much to him. The collective liver damage must be staggering.

After a break, which prompts a small bathroom rush, is the traffic report, issued by a stern-faced sunglass-wearing couple in a helicopter. There aren't names for most of the roads around the little desert oasis of civilization that is Night Vale. To the newcomers, the mile-marker numbers that are rattled off sound more like coded transmissions than locations, but they're sure the meanings will become clear with time.

The weather report is a comfortingly normal series of slides showing the expected temperatures and precipitation for the next ten days. The accompanying music, with its aggressively-strummed acoustic guitar, is an unusual choice for a backing track, however. Talia guesses that it must be a sponsorship thing, like the Goodyear Blimp, since the ticker at the bottom of the screen informs viewers that the album is “available now at Dark Owl Records”. The rest of the restaurant patrons ignore the slides completely, as they are all precisely identical: sunny, hot, dry, with temperatures falling overnight.

Their pizza arrives as the reporter begins the second half of the broadcast, just as charming and soothing as before. The fidgeting and head-bobbing in the bar ceases as everybody's attention returns to the screen.

“A new man came into town today. Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful lab coat? He says he is a scientist.”

Rochelle bats wildly at Carlos' shoulder as he takes a bite of pizza, ravenous and now oblivious to everything except dinner. He looks at her in confusion until she actually grabs his head and turns it towards the television.

A pre-recorded clip has supplanted the image of the news desk, and with a start Carlos realizes that it is his own face now filling the screen.

The footage is from the town meeting earlier in the afternoon, when he'd stood up on the middle school auditorium stage and introduced himself to a small crowd of locals. He'd known that there was a camera crew present, but he had hardly expected to make the evening news.

“Night Vale is by far the most scientifically interesting town in the United States, and I look forward to working with all of you to find out more about this unique place,” he hears his own voice saying.

“Wait a _seeecond_...” somebody at the next table drawls.

Carlos pulls his eyes from the TV to realize that all faces in the restaurant have turned towards him.

Cecil's voice returns, sighing, “As you can see, everything about him was perfect, and I fell in love instantly.”

The entire room lets out a whoop of delight and kicks back their drinks. After a moment Carlos realizes that his mouth is hanging open. He tries to swallow his half-chewed food, which gets stuck partway down and sends him into a violent coughing fit. Rochelle hammers a fist against his back and Marty pushes a glass of water across the table.

The other patrons have resumed watching, continuing on as if this was all a part of a perfectly ordinary news report. For all they know it might be, but the scientists in the back booth are too far gone with laughter to pay attention to the rest of the show.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later Carlos is out on a jog through Mission Grove park when he spots a crowd of people staring upwards. He hasn't been sleeping well – he's been having strange dreams ever since he moved – but these morning runs help.

He makes his way off the path to join them in the clearing between trees and he has to admit: it is beautiful and strange out this morning.

The sun is only barely over the horizon but a section of the sky is tinged with bands of green and red and yellow-violet, and seems to glow and ripple in the breeze. The people around him murmur in appreciation and amazement as the shapes shift and slide like curtains and waves.

Cursing himself for leaving his cell phone at home, Carlos stares for several more minutes before aborting his run early and heading back to the lab.

By the time the rest of the team wanders in he's already surrounded by notes and printouts. He can find no recent records of coronal mass ejections, and it's the wrong point in the solar cycle to expect something like this, but he knows what he saw: that was a magnetic storm, an aurora.

“You sure?” Salome asks, skeptical. “We're, what, thirty degrees off from the Arctic circle? More?”

“Sounds about right,” Rochelle confirms.

“I know it doesn't make sense, but I swear I know what I saw,” Carlos insists. “It was small and localized, but it was there.”

Marty starts poking through his files and asks, “You've seen the northern lights before?”

“Well – no,” Carlos admits. “But I've seen enough videos on YouTube. And I've definitely seen enough clouds to know what isn't one.”

“Not doubting you,” Marty reassures him. “Just curious.”

“I know what I saw,” Carlos insists.

 

* * *

 

The “Glow Cloud” – as it's being referred to – is spotted sporadically all over town all day, people standing in the middle of the highway to stare, kids running to their classroom windows to point at the sky. The radio hisses and cracks, and the telephone and cable goes out for most of the afternoon. Birds have been flying into the large glass windows at the front of the building all morning.

“It's a magnetic storm,” Carlos gripes to the team, who insist that they believe him. “All our instruments are going haywire. It's throwing everything off. Even the animals are reacting to it.”

“So if it's not caused by a solar storm, what could it be?” Talia asks, reasonably. “Something to do with the military bases, do you think?”

“I doubt it,” Rochelle says, removing plugs from the last of the outlets so that nothing gets overloaded and fried from the surges that have been happening on-and-off for the past few hours. “They were mostly decommissioned post-war, weren't they?”

“That's what they want you to think,” Dave chimes in, having successfully shooed a very confused and very scared bat back out of the walk-in freezer. “I think that's the last of the critters.”

“There are still a bunch of slugs trying to squeeze through the cracks in the window seals,” Marty points out. “But I don't think they're going to do much damage other than leave goo on things, even if they do manage to get in.”

“Maybe it is a storm, maybe it's just not being reported yet since so much of the tech is down right now,” Carlos reasons. “Maybe there will be something on the news tonight.”

“Oooh,” Salome croons. “Let's watch the _news!_ I bet your TV-boyfriend has some _news_ he'd like to _share_ –”

“Salome?” Carlos interrupts with a sigh.

She bats her eyelashes in faux-innocence. “Yes?”

“Go clean up the slugs."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: sinister public health hazards of the American southwest, courtesy of our favorite mega-corporation!


	3. Goddamn Right It's a Beautiful Day

_The kids flip their lids when their lids hear that crazy sound_  
 _My neighbor digs the flavor but still he's moving to another town  
_ _And I don't believe he'll come back_

_Goddamn right it's a beautiful day  
Goddamn right it's a beautiful day_

_(“[Mr E's Beautiful Blues](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJRbvgJhR-U)” by Eels)_

_* * *_

 

Carlos and Talia assemble a list of coordinates where they expect to find equipment in need of examination: anything too broken to be useful will be swept up and taken away, while the rest can be either repurposed or updated, and then put back to work.

They expect to find far more of the first than the second.

The area surrounding Night Vale had been a hotbed of government R&D back in the 40s and 50s, and while much of the activity has fallen off, there are still a number of monitoring sites scattered through the desert. Most were decommissioned or abandoned decades ago, although a few still operate independently without the need of constant repair or supervision.

They start at one of the further sites, planning to work their way back towards town. There are a couple of old geological survey sites on their list, and they rescue a half-dozen seismographs that look like they just need some careful calibration to get them working again. A few of their coordinates seem to be empty, possibly stripped years ago by folks looking to scavenge and sell parts, or maybe just buried under the dirt and sand. The last stop on their list is a canyon close enough to town that the tall neon sign of the bowling alley is still visible in the distance.

“This should be it,” Talia says, checking the GPS against the map as Carlos parks the lab's truck a little ways back from the edge. “Radden's Canyon. Though when I was looking up records I was told that everybody here calls it Radon Canyon instead.”

Carlos shields his eyes to get a better look, and points at a ledge a little ways below the edge of the crevasse. “Well, that certainly looks foreboding.”

The canyon is littered with pieces of abandoned, smashed-in cars, probably pushed over the edge in order to watch the ensuing wreckage. There's a large, grimy pool of stagnant water at the bottom and the whole thing is ringed on all sides by steep rock face. About ten feet down and to the left of where the truck is parked there is a narrow but walkable-looking path. It leads to an outcropping and a thick metal door, already slightly ajar, that certainly isn't part of the natural landscape.

“Yep,” says Talia, checking their papers one last time before climbing out of the pick-up. “This place was apparently a signal monitoring station once upon a time. They really took that spy stuff seriously, back in the day.”

The rocky pathway down into the canyon has a broken board nailed across it, emblazoned with a stamped-metal sign that reads: _KEEP OUT. NO TRESSPASSING._

The two scientists move carefully, ducking around the blockade and watching their footing as they edge down the rocky pathway. While the door itself is clearly a relic of a time passed, the ground provides clues to somewhat more recent habitation: cigarette butts, empty beer cans and discarded potato chip bags rustle gently in the warm breeze.

“My, what a lovely spot,” Carlos mutters, self-consciously skirting an empty condom wrapper.

Talia reaches the door first and pushes at it with her foot. It swings open easily, despite its obvious age.

“Oh my God, you _have_ to check this out!” she yells, moving inside without bothering to wait for Carlos.

When he finally follows her in, she's grinning her gap-toothed smile, using her cellphone to cast a light around. The room is roughly the size of a high school cafeteria, and about as inviting, cavernous and cold. Their voices reverberate back to them from all sides, warped and hollow sounding.

“This is so awesome,” she laughs, gesturing to the graffiti- and poster-covered walls.

One wall is mostly taken up by a neon scrawl that reads “Radon Canyon Dance Club”, surrounded by crudely-drawn genitalia and psuedo-political messages such as “ ~~Federal~~ Toilet Papers” and “DBHS Sucks”. Stacked off to one side is a pile of old equipment on folding tables, but none of it looks terribly scientific: a turntable, a disco ball, several beat-up looking speakers. Indents and discolorations on the floor hint that the space was once used for some other purpose, but all other evidence is long gone.

“Awesome? I think this is probably where all the kids go to listen to prog rock and get high and make out,” Carlos says, carefully winding his way deeper into the bunker. The front portion is constructed of concrete slabs, but the further back he goes the more it seems to be hewn out of the rock itself.

“Exactly!” Talia croons. “I would have loved this place when I was sixteen.”

“I have a feeling you and I were very different as teenagers,” Carlos says, eyeing a panel of old push-button style light switches. “I wonder if any of the electric in here still works?”

“They've gotta run their sound system somehow,” Talia points out, now crouched next to a crate of records, pawing through the music selection and cackling with laughter.

Carlos shrugs and pushes one of the buttons. After a few weak flickers the room is filled with a deep purple glow – the government issued florescent tubes have been replaced with their blacklight counterparts. The rest of the buttons have a similar effect, and soon the entire room has taken on the look of a rave, with much of the graffiti and other adornments glowing eerily. Talia lets out a whoop of glee and turns off her makeshift flashlight.

Their fingernails, teeth and the long fibers in their jeans all glow bright white. There are suspicious spots and stains around the floor and walls that neither of them want to think too hard about the biological implications of. There are also strange veins within the rock itself. Carlos leans in closer for a better look.

“Hey,” he calls, beckoning Talia over to examine the rock with him. “What does this look like to you? Paint, biological or mineral?”

“Mineral,” she decides. “Not enough splatter or brush stroke to be anything else.”

“Do you have a dosimeter or a geiger counter on you?”

“No. I've got one in the car, I think....” she says, slowly catching on. “What are you thinking?”

Carlos stands and grabs her lightly by the elbow, pulling her back to the entrance, not bothering to hit the lights as they leave. “I'm thinking there might be a reason this is called Radon Canyon.”

* * *

The whole team – minus Dave, who is taking a long weekend to try and work things out with his fiancee – returns to the canyon several days later, this time equipped with filtered masks, safe suits, beeping devices and plenty of well-sealed sample containers.

As they wind their way down the path, the needle on the dosimeter twitches very slightly. It's not unusual in a canyon like this, made of so many different types of rock layers, but it puts them all on high alert.

“Looks like a steady 6.3 picocuries per liter through most of it,” Marty announces. “Considering the lack of ventilation in here, it could probably be a lot worse. In terms of background radiation, it's actually better than some areas of the midwest, if that makes anybody feel better.”

“Yeah, but it's still significantly elevated past recommended indoor exposure limits,” Salome points out. “And that is why I will never move to Minnesota. Well, and because the Vikings suck. Probably a side-effect, though.”

They carefully extract a few core samples from the rock, both inside the bunker and outside, and post a large yellow, trefoil-emblazoned sign on the door: an unmistakable radioactivity warning. It's not much, but it's what they can manage until they have more information and proof.

* * *

Late Saturday night, Rochelle and Salome see lights from their shared kitchen window on the north side of the laboratory building.

“It overlooks Radon Canyon,” they explain the next morning at the scientists' daily check-in meeting. “There was something going on over there. I couldn't tell what, but there were flashes of light and weird noises.”

“I'll look into it,” Carlos says, digging out the business card he'd stuffed in his wallet some months before. When he dials he expects to be put through to a reception desk or junior staffer, but it's Cecil Palmer himself who picks up.

“Well, _hello_!” Cecil chirps when he realizes who is calling. “How very nice to hear from you.”

“I'm not calling for personal reasons,” Carlos warns.

“In that case I assume you are calling for professional reasons?” Cecil asks, seemingly undeterred in his cheerfulness. “What matter of scientific importance may I assist you with?”

“There's was something going on in Radon Canyon last night,” Carlos explains. “We've been doing some studies there and it's not safe. We think it may be– well, let's just say I'm worried. I'm worried for the people who spend time there; I'm worried for this town. Do you know anything about what was happening there?”

“No, I don't,” it sounds so regretful and sad that Carlos immediately wants to assure him that it's okay, he appreciates his help anyway. “But I'll ask around and see if anybody else knows! I'll be sure to let you know if I discover anything.”

“Thank you, Cecil,” he says, relief evident in his voice. “I owe you one.”

“Oh? In that case, maybe if you're free next weekend–”

“ _Thanks-again-bye_ ,” Carlos manages to rush out before Cecil can go any further with that line of questioning.

* * *

Salome has just confirmed the presence of low-level natural uranium deposits in their rock samples when Cecil calls back twenty minutes later to let them know that it was a Pink Floyd Multimedia Laser Spectacular. The information comes directly from several attendees as well as members of the Park Service.

“This is even worse that I imagined,” Carlos mutters to himself. “Look, I'll probably have more information soon, but right now I have to run. Thanks for the update.”

He once again hangs up before Cecil can manage to ask him on a date. After all, if he never actually asks, Carlos never actually has to give him an answer. It's so much easier that way.

Twenty minutes later the City Council has issues a reminder that the Canyon is technically private property, overseen by Park Rangers for safety reasons but not actually under their purview, and trespassers will not be tolerated. Officially nothing is happening there, nothing has happened there, and nothing will happen there.

“What is going on?” Talia asks, bewildered. “Are they trying to cover something up?”

“Like what? Unsafe levels of radioactive gas?” asks Dave in mock curosity. “Oh. Right. _Yes._ ”

“I'll see if I can find any more information about the property records,” Marty promises.

* * *

Carlos dreams.

There is darkness, and then there is light. It begins as a soft purple which makes everything shine and glow. The bright green in the rocks is soothing, calm, as familiar as a nightlight.

He walks through the canyon, surrounded by the soft radience of the rocks and the purple-black of the invisible sun that must be casting the light upon them. There is a pool of water, here in the bottom of the canyon. It, too, glows but as he approaches he sees that it's not only the rock that is lit up, but the water itself, and the things swimming inside of it. Like electroluminescent jellyfish, but these are not jellyfish – they are deer. They are not swimming; they are flailing, legs kicking wildly, stirring up a glowing froth at the edge of the lake. Then, as these things happen in dreams, they are suddenly bloated and rotting.

The stench is overwhelming.

He turns to run, but as he does he sees the sun – not the ultraviolet sun, but a warm, yellow sun – rising over the steep rocky walls. It is comforting; he smiles. The light is moving quickly, but it is not rising. The light is rushing towards him. He closes his eyes and he can still see it. He turns away and it still encompasses him. He can feel it. He can feel it now – it is white-hot, the light and the energy passing through him, between capillaries and atoms, pushing its way into the minute spaces in which is he made of nothingness.

Everything is made of light: the fetid, acid-green corpse of the deer that has thrust its antlers into him and is trying to pull him under the water; the sun that is hurtling towards him from behind and in front and all around; the earth and rock itself that he's standing on, that melts beneath his feet as if becoming molten glass. Everything is light and everything is blinding.

There is a sound, growing louder and louder, pulsing through him.

With a start he wakes, sitting bolt upright in bed. The curtains are open and the sun has crept across his sleeping eyes. His phone is still ringing, oblivious to his confusion and panic.

“Hello?” he manages, still trying to get his breathing under control.

“Good morning, Carlos,” says Cecil. “I just got your voicemail on my work phone. Do you still want to meet this afternoon? Also, let me give you my personal number! Just in case you need to reach me after hours again.”

* * * 

According to public records, Radon Canyon is owned by a development conglomerate and has been since the mid-60s. The company has a number of subsidiaries and holdings, including medical supply companies, a consumer products division, a media production arm and, oddly, a large quantity of land in the Greater Desert Bluffs Metropolitan Area.

“The direct holding is managed by the Night Vale Institute for Geological Development,” Marty says, spreading out the paperwork he managed to dig up at City Hall, after a long battle with the records department. “But the parent company is Strexcorp Synernists Inc, the beloved mega-corporation that brought you such delights as Sunny Day Active Wear brand workout clothes and Más Caliente artificially-flavored taco seasoning.”

“Weren't our old centrifuges made by them?” Rochelle asks Dave, brow furrowed.

“Yep,” he jumps in. “They own just about everything; they're like the poor man's Proctor & Gamble.”

“What, exactly, was the goal of the Night Vale Institute for Geological Development?” asks Carlos.

“Uranium mining, mostly,” Dave says. “A few copper mines, too. This area is a hotbed for that stuff opportunities – literally. They mostly ceased uranium production around the late 70s or so, but most of the sites were just abandoned, never sealed up properly. There's natural radiation in that canyon, but there's also a huge amount of waste from the production process. Who knows how well it's been contained? It's probably in all the ground water, all the crops, everything around here.”

This is definitely worse than Carlos imagined.

* * *

Cecil has persuaded him into talking at a cafe, reasoning that if it's as important as Carlos says it is, they should probably meet in person. Reluctantly, he agrees, stipulating that this is to remain a professional and straightforward meeting, that there is nothing... personal about it.

“Oh, we know all about Strexcorp,” Cecil says, passively stirring cream into his coffee. “That's old news. Everybody who grew up here heard stories about the mines. Our parents all worked there, or with the government, back in the day. It paid pretty well, and was considered good work if you could get it. There were some lawsuits, a long time ago, but they were settled and the properties are all abandoned now. Well, except for the high school kids who sneak in to have their parties.”

“That's the problem!” Carlos says, leaning forward, arms against the sticky formica tabletop. “They may have gone, but they've left behind a huge public safety hazard! The environmental impact could be massive, we're not even sure of the extent of it yet.”

Cecil shrugs and looks somewhat uncomfortable. “What would you have us do, Carlos? We've been living in the shadows of their mistakes and their lack of responsibility for years. Don't forget, the government used to use this part of the desert as a bomb detonation site, too. Even if the mines were cleaned up, would it really fix the problem?”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair and tries to ignore the way that Cecil's eyes follow it.

“One of my scientists hit a deer the other day,” Carlos says, seemingly out of nowhere. “It was the middle of the day, on an open road. It wasn't spooked, it wasn't being chased – it just jumped in front of the truck.”

“They really are a public nuisance,” Cecil assures him, making sympathetic noises.

“But this one was– it–” Carlos tries to find the words to explain. “The Park Service took it away and wouldn't allow us to study it. But my coworker – she took a photo before they arrived. The deer had too many eyes, Cecil. And a vestigial second head. It had _two heads_. That is _not_ a normal deer!”

Cecil gives him a warm, sympathetic look and places a hand on top of his – just for a moment, not long enough that he can even think about pulling away, or not pulling away – and says, “That's pretty normal around here.”

“It _shouldn't_ be,” Carlos mutters bitterly, directing his words into his mug. His face feels hot from embarrassment and indignation and desperation and frustration. “It's– it's not _right_.”

“No, I suppose it's not,” Cecil smiles sadly. “But it is home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of the destruction of Night Vale's sister city from a nuclear bomb seems eerily similar to the description of the Unraveling of All Things brought on by Strexcorp, and the Smiling God. Just putting that out there.
> 
> There are, in fact, a lot of abandoned and poorly-cleaned uranium mines in the southwest. There are major health impacts, but it's hard to gauge the extent. I should state that much of this fic is loosely based on factual information, but I am in no way an expert on the subject matter at hand and I'm also totally taking artistic liberties in certain areas.


	4. Salt and Dirty Sand

_Don't take it so bad_   
_You know the summer's coming soon_   
_Though the interstate is choking under salt and dirty sand_   
_And it seems the sun is hiding from the moon_

_(“[Valley Winter Song](http://youtu.be/xPf4Fer8IJ4)” by Fountains of Wayne)_

_* * *_

 

Nobody on the team is a trained meteorologist, but they're a hell of a lot closer than anybody else in the city seems to be, particularly since Marty volunteered them as a monitoring site for the National Weather Service, recording rainfall rates and temperature readings whenever possible. There's not much out in this corner of the desert, so any information is better than none at all when it comes to data collection.

The incoming pressure system and high winds are just beginning to sweep in when they get a friendly and only-moderately-frantic call from another station about 150 miles to the west: there's a sandstorm headed their way, and it's coming fast. Rochelle turns on speaker phone so that the whole lab can hear the details. It's early in the season for something like this, but it looks like it's going to be a doozy. They're not anticipating tornado conditions, but there _is_ a thunderstorm following in its wake.

Talia, who spent some time at a research outpost in the Gobi, immediately begins directing them to board the windows and protect the most delicate equipment. As the team mobilizes into action they shout across the lab, stuffing towels and lab coats into vents and doorways, running buckets of water, and tossing dust masks and safety glasses to one another.

“Keep it down for a second!” Carlos yells, pulling up a list of contacts on his phone. “I'm need to alert the news station.”

“Hel- _lo_ , this is Cecil Palmer,” says a voice, picking up after exactly two and a half rings.

“This is Carlos. I'm not calling for personal reasons,” he adds quickly, because he doesn't want to get into that. Again. Not right now – there's too much happening to be distracted right now. 'Now' is never a good time, no matter when that seems to be. “There's a massive sandstorm heading our way. Can you get the word out?”

“Absolutely!” Cecil says, far too peppy for the situation. “When can we expect it? How bad will it be? Do you have any other information? Are you free on Saturday?”

“Imminently. Pretty bad. It may be followed by the possibility of flash-flooding. All my current plans are focused on short-term continued survival.”

“Terrific! Well, I'll let everybody know how conscientious you are to give us time to prepare. Do let me know if you're still alive on Saturday and interested in getting coffee.”

“Bye, Cecil,” Carlos says and, as an afterthought, “Stay safe.”

 

* * *

 

The scientists hunker down while the storm rages around them. While they've boarded up as much of the building as possible, including their rooms upstairs, they decide to wait the day out together in the main lab. It's the best-protected and most social place to be, and while nobody is willing to admit that they're scared of wind and sand, nobody is particularly keen on being left alone, either. Talia teasingly refers to them as “a bunch of chicken-hearted city slickers”, but she's staked out the very center of the room, further eat from the windows, so nobody much respects her opinion on the matter.

The storm front moves in quickly, but lasts for what feels like an eternity. They try to pick up a radio signal, but all they can get is a garbled feed of a female voice reciting numbers and, on the far end of the dial, what seems to be police chatter from a violent homicide in Desert Bluffs. All around the building the wind howls and whistles, occasionally punctuated by the sharp crack of a tree – or possibly a power line – being overwhelmed by the extreme weather.

At some point the lights flicker out, although they come back on less than a minute later. Salome, who is having the best luck getting cell reception, browses through local online sources for updates and information. Nothing on Twitter is in the least bit helpful and the Night Vale Daily Journal website is worryingly inactive. Eventually she stumbles across the community television channel's streaming simulcast, a feature none of them had ever bothered to discover before.

Since a minute-to-minute report would probably consist primarily of “yep, still a lot of blowing sand out there”, the station has elected to show a marathon of old westerns, interspersed with occasional updates delivered by their main anchor. Cecil's studio desk is unsettlingly unaffected, contained well within the walls of the studio and untouched by the storm raging outside.

Salome props her phone up on a table, and the alternate, soothing hum of Cecil's voice and the movie's soundtrack creates a comforting background as they play cards and make a sizable dent in the rum stash that had been hidden under the tattered break room sofa.

“In case of emergency,” Dave says, defensive, when Marty pulls it out with a raised eyebrow. “Or, you know, _whatever_.”

Carlos is about two-thirds of the way to drunk when the all-clear comes through.

"Citizens," Cecil is as comforting and collected as always, "The time for fear has passed. Now is the time to emerge from your shelters and assess the damage around you, and remember that you are still here despite all of it."

The team carefully pokes their heads out the front door only to discover sand piled halfway up the side of the building, strewn with an assortment of branches, garbage and a few pieces of laundry still attached to a snapped clothesline. They decide that as long as nothing is actively dangerous they'll deal with it all in the morning – it's nearly dark now, even after the passing of the storm, which has been blotting out the sun for the better part of the afternoon. The adrenaline, booze and lack of light has left them all exhausted.

They wander back upstairs, laughing with the knowledge of an ultimately harmless shared experience, wishing each other goodnight as they peel off to their individual apartments.

Carlos allows himself to fall, face-first, onto his bed. It's nice to not need to worry right now. Something has happened, and something has finished happening, and everything is going to be okay. It's a warm, fuzzy feeling, made warmer and fuzzier by the alcohol and lack of substantial food inside his body. Also, he just washed his sheets and his bed is really, really comfortable at the moment. 

Just as he's debating the worthwhileness of removing his shoes, his phone buzzes against his hip. He manages to fumble it out and smoosh it to his ear, not bothering to even look at the screen before answering.

“Hello?” he asks, as clearly as possible with a mouthful of comforter.

“Hello, Carlos,” comes a familiar voice from the other end. “I just wanted to thank you for giving us such a timely and heroic tip on the sandstorm.”

“Mmhm,” Carlos manages, suddenly exhausted now that he's found himself somewhere so comfortable. “Always glad to help.”

“Well, if I can ever help you in any way in return, it would be my pleasure,” Cecil says.

“Okay,” Carlos tells him, and he's too tired to pick apart that sentence or that tone. “I have to go now. To sleep.”

“Well, thanks again,” Cecil says. And then, softly, “Sweet dreams, Carlos.”

 

* * *

 

Carlos' dreams are not sweet.

There is sand everywhere, as if the desert itself were coming for him. He runs and runs and gets nowhere, the ground like an endless, barren treadmill. Somehow he is in the lab, then, and the team is all there, but it's not really them, and the sand is seeping in from all sides and trying to drown him. He feels like he's in an Indiana Jones movie, but he's not an _archaeologist_ – he's a _scientist_. He doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know how to fight an entire desert. He asks the Not-Dave and Not-Rochelle and the other Not-Scientists to pull him out. They only stare at him with empty eyes And do nothing but grin, slowly. 

Cecil is there. Carlos pleads with him, says, “You told me to ask for help, I need your help!” but Cecil is Not-Cecil, and only smiles too-wide and tells him, “Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”

He wakes up at three fourty-six in the morning, sweating and smelling slightly pickled. He takes a shower and changes his sheets. He opens a window, sweeping an inch and a half of sand from the sill.

If he dreams any further, he forgets it by morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lack of internet makes posting complicated, boo. 
> 
> Get ready for a fast-forward....


	5. The Sky Didn't Know What to Do

_Fear and doubt began_  
 _And God threw up his hands_  
And the sky didn't know what to do  
 _The sky didn't know what to do_

_(“[Before the Earth was Round](http://youtu.be/7frEFnt9CKU)” by OK Go)_

_* * *_

 

All told, Carlos is just happy to be alive.

Dave had described his fall as resembling a sad slinky, sort of turning and rolling and falling and bouncing all at the same time. Based on the way he'd felt in the hospital after, that seemed to be just about right. He only remembers that day in pieces:

Going out to Radon Canyon to run tests. His nose bleeding. Feeling light-headed. Stumbling, falling. Waking up, screaming. Jeremy Godfried holding him down while the bowling alley owner applied pressure to his wounds and reset his dislocated shoulder. He remembers laying in a hospital bed, squinting through the haze of morphine at Cecil reporting the accident on the evening news.

He doesn't remember the man Talia described to police as “possibly on his way to a costume party” wading into the sludge-filled lake to retrieve his broken body, and he doesn't remember being carried out.

He does remember hearing the man was found dead two days later.

The official autopsy report hasn't been released to the public yet, but Carlos has his suspicions. He can't imagine what that man had been up to that made him so familiar with the grounds of an abandoned mining site, but it can't possibly have been good for his health.

“How's the weather?” Cecil asks, quietly, interrupting his thoughts.

Carlos blinks and realizes he's been rubbing his arm, staring off into the distance.

It's been nearly three months and everything has healed well, but sometimes Carlos swears that his arm feels cold on the inside, where the metal pins were put in to hold the shattered bones together. He's begun to think of it as his how version of a “trick knees” – the feeling gets worse when the weather turns bad, and the long scar itches at times like these.

Whenever this happens Cecil half-jokingly tries to convince him to take over as the station weatherman. He always refuses, although it does seem that he has managed to become the _de facto_ talking head for anything even vaguely scientific that the news cares to report on – the perils of dating a news anchor, he supposes. More than a running gag, though, he knows that Cecil's questions about the weather really amount to, _Is everything okay?_ Or _I'm worried about you_.

He appreciates both the sentiment and the tactful way that they skirt the real issue, the fact that, well, Carlos almost died. In more ways than one. While he survived the accident, he hasn't told Cecil – or his team – the full and complete truth: he hadn't passed out from sunstroke, as he'd said.

While it's impossible to pinpoint the cause of the accident with absolute certainty, the fact that the the hospital treated him for heavy metal poisoning and put him through dialysis makes him feel quite justified in claiming that Night Vale itself is trying the kill him. The ground, the water, the air... everything about this place seems to have it out for him.

And yet he's still here.

He knows that Cecil worries that he'll leave, after all that's happened. He knows that, and he also knows that he won't. He can't, now. Not now that Cecil _does_ worry. Not now that they– well, he's not sure what _they_ , exactly, but now he has a reason to stay.

“No rain,” he says. He stops rubbing his arm and reaches over to take Cecil's hand, to give it a reassuring squeeze. “Do you still want to go out tonight?”

“Of course,” Cecil says, squeezing back.

And if Carlos holds on just a little tighter than usual, Cecil doesn't say anything about it.

 

* * *

 

The night sky is beautiful and black, peppered with points of light, shining from a million miles away.

“I don't see it,” Cecil complains good-naturedly, squinting up where Carlos is pointing. “What am I supposed to be looking at, again? I think you're making things up. Stars, moons, planets? More like lies, if you ask me.”

Carlos scoots closer, the heels of his work boots thumping against the bed of the pickup truck. They are side-by-side atop a pile of old blankets, the night young and pleasant, not yet chilly enough to require crawling beneath them.

“No, no – you have to look at them out of the corner of your eye,” Carlos says. “The center of your vision can pick up detail, but the peripheral is more sensitive to light – better for stargazing.”

“Like this?” Cecil asks, turning his head fully to the side, eyes searching Carlos' face. “Is this better?”

“Cecil,” Carlos warns, laughing. “Well, is it? What do _you_ think, hm?”

“I'm looking at the most beautiful, scientifically-interesting, important thing in _my_ universe,” he says. “Definitely better.”

It's so sweet and ridiculous yet earnest that Carlos doesn't know whether to laugh or swoon or hit him, so he does none of those things.

“You've got a little scar on your neck,” he observes instead, running a finger gently along the small, raised line between Cecil's collarbones. It looks well-healed, old. Carlos has never taken the time to notice it before, for which he chides himself.

“Oh, that,” Cecil says, tilting his head back.

“What's it from?” Carlos asks. If there's one thing a scientist lives for, it's learning new information and it just so happens that Cecil-information is his current favorite kind.

“When I had my thyroid taken out.” Cecil is dismissive about it, as if it's nothing.

“Oh?” There is a sudden clenching in Carlos' stomach, but he tried to keep his face impassive, his voice light. They have only recently begun spending a significant number of nights together, and while he _had_ noticed pill bottles in Cecil's medicine cabinet, he had managed to restrain himself from examining the labels. “When was that?”

Cecil hums in thought, the sound vibrating through Carlos' fingertips, which are still ghosting lightly back and forth across the base of his neck. “I guess it was probably the July after I graduated college? I don't remember exactly. That whole summer was kind of a blur.”

Carlos considers for a moment before saying, “If you don't mind me asking: do thyroid problems run in your family?”

“Problems? Well, no, not really – I mean everybody gets theirs out eventually, right? Although I suppose that mine _was_ a little early,” he concedes. “But I also had my wisdom teeth removed when I was fourteen, so don't think it's that unusual.”

“Oh,” Carlos says by way of response. He thinks about that, that everybody gets theirs out, eventually. His hand begins to stray, stroking absently along Cecil's neck and beneath the collar of his shirt as he considers all that such a thing might imply. Literally everybody, or only figuratively? Since when? How many of these surgeries might be medically necessary and how many preventative? For what purposes? And what's being done about it?

He often feels as if his thoughts are a hydrogen balloon, lighter than air and incendiary, taking him further and further afield and always just skirting the possibility of devastating explosion. Cecil shifts closer and rests a warm, broad palm against his hip, bringing him back to the here and now. It's a comforting, grounding reminder that not everything is theoretical; there are practical matters and applications to life.

“I still have mine,” Carlos says, feeling he should contribute something. “My thyroid _and_ my wisdom teeth, come to think of it. Plus,” he amends, “a few plates and screws. I've got extra pieces, even.”

“Lovely Carlos,” Cecil says, turning to press his lips to Carlos' wrist where the long, red scar on his arm tapers to an end.

“Beautiful Carlos,” he says, kissing the side of his strong, square jaw, full of perfectly aligned teeth.

“Wonderful Carlos,” Cecil murmurs into the hollow of his throat, smooth and scarless. “Whether you had everything or nothing, you could never be anything less than perfect.”

Carlos squirms pleasantly and pulls Cecil closer, settling him on top of his chest. “I thought you were the one who told me perfection isn't real?”

“Perfectly imperfect,” Cecil says against his lips, face close and sincere. “Perfect for me.”

 

* * *

 

Helicopters are a common sight in the clear, open sky above Night Vale. The black ones ferry officials to and from the military installations nearby, and the ones with murals of native bird species are easily identified as the National Parks Service surveying for forest fires. There are others, sometimes, splashed with colorful logos and hired by rich old business-men and -women making the most of their retirement, finally living out their dreams of seeing the beautiful, strange, empty landscape, but unable or unwilling to enjoy it on foot.

The _yellow_ helicopters, however, are a new addition.

The new arrivals make circuits around the city and the surrounding area, or else they hover for hours, occasionally dipping below the horizon only to resurface an indeterminate amount of time later. They seem to come and go as they please; there's no apparent schedule to their arrivals or departures.

There's not much out in this corner of the desert other than Desert Bluffs and Pine Ridge, but even collectively the three towns' population barely surpasses the size of the state university's freshman class. Dave tells anybody who will listen that the helicopters are from the Department of Transportation, surveying for a new highway that would run a more direct route between their little burgh and one of the larger cities, like... well, anywhere. Anywhere would be larger, it seems. He doesn't have a good reason for why anybody would want a direct highway connection through Night Vale, but that does not deter his conviction.

“Whatever,” Marty huffs over lunch. “It's probably just another new tourism company.”

Rochelle makes a thoughtful noise. “It seems like they keep going out to the same areas, over and over – maybe they're building some kind of desert getaway resort? I'd heard rumors about one when we moved here.”

“Eh, unless it's got a waterfront recreation area, I don't want it. Besides, I bet you it's Google,  _watching_ us,” Marty half-jokes. “They're probably self-flying. Could be the NSA.”

“God, they'd be the worst, most conspicuous spies ever,” Talia laughs.

“Oooh, ooh! I bet it's National Geographic, filming a documentary!” Salome says, hands flapping, already excited about the prospect. “Seriously, think about it: who else would have _yellow_ helicopters?”

“Hey, you're awfully quiet,” Rochelle says, bumping her shoulder against Carlos' and stealing one of his french fries while the others squabble over their unfounded theories. “What're you thinking about?”

He's thinking about the worried glance Cecil gave the sky when they were strolling through the park last night and a dark spot passed overhead. He's thinking about the set, angry looks he's seen Old Woman Josie share with Larry Leroy in the Ralph's, when the sound of the rotors becomes audible even over the tinny supermarket music.

The team is friendly with many of the people over at the community college – Dr. Dubinsky stops by frequently and offers to have her chemistry students run their samples as homework, and perpetual-student Simone Rigadeau always insists on inviting them to her potlucks at the Earth Sciences building – but they're not... involved with the town the way Carlos is. They don't see the things he sees.

He is quiet for a moment, before he shakes he head and smiles, “I'm thinking that we live in a very small town if our main topic of lunch conversation over the past week has been helicopters.”

 

* * *

 

The helicopters are, to Salome's great disappointment, not in any way associated with educational nature programming: they belong to Strexcorp Synernists Inc.

There have been no announcements, no press releases, no formal declarations of any projects, just the now-constant hum of helicopters circling the city, and the occasional newly-posted sign in the windows of local businesses: _Under New Management!_

Carlos gets a call from Cecil on a Tuesday night, asking if he will come over. That, in and of itself, is not unusual, but the tone of the request puts him on high alert.

The door to Cecil's apartment has been left unlocked for him and by the time he gets there he's worked himself up to fear the worst. He isn't even certain what the worst might be, but he's afraid of it anyway. He's learned to embrace that feeling after being in Night Vale for so long. That feeling is usually pretty spot-on.

Instead of the worst, however, he finds his boyfriend in the living room, pouring two glasses of brandy and humming to himself.

“How are you?” he asks, burrowing his face into the back of Cecil's neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Cecil leans against him and they are both quiet for a few moments.

“They've replaced the board of directors,” Cecil says at last. “At the station.”

Carlos shuffles him down onto the couch, where they sit-sprawl much closer than is necessary or, to be honest, entirely comfortable in regards to the circulation in Carlos' legs. But he won't complain, at least not until his foot goes numb.

“What does that mean for you?” he asks.

“I don't know,” Cecil says, voice low and foreboding. “I renegotiated my contract last year and it's iron-clad. That's how the legal department referred to it when I had it looked over – _iron-clad_. They won't fire me. They can't. And I won't quit. I can't. I do not know what is going to happen to me, or to the station,” he sighs. “Or to this town.”

“Well,” Carlos tries to soothe him, rubbing small circles against his back. “I guess we'll just have to make the best of whatever comes our way.”


	6. Looks Like We're in for Nasty Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night Vale's sordid history and unsafe living conditions are getting a little bit too personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have plenty of excuses for not posting, but none of them change the fact that I didn't! Eek. _Mea maxima culpa_.

_Hope you got your things together_  
 _Hope you are quite prepared to die_  
 _Looks like we're in for nasty weather_  
 _One eye is taken for an eye_

_(“[Bad Moon Rising](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUQiUFZ5RDw)” by Creedence Clearwater Revival)_

 

_* * *_

 

The longer Carlos stays, the more he feels connected to Night Vale in a way he'd never felt in Los Angeles: he is on a first-name basis with the clerks at the grocery store, he's won over all the slacker barristas with his generous tipping habits, and – to his shocked but pleased surprise – he's now considered one of the regulars at Big Rico's.

Even without his knowledge or consent, he has been woven into the fabric of the place, become a piece of it. And it, in return, has grown on him – more in the sense of a horrible, blood-sucking parasite than an emerging fondness – but grown on him nonetheless. Despite all that he loves about his newly-adopted city, there are still _so many_ things about Night Vale that infuriate him. He's lost count of how many, by now.

The thing he hates most is the strange brand of resigned fatalism that seems to blanket the town. He wants them all to wake up, to see what's happening around them, to take up arms and a cause and to shout and complain and picket and petition and scream and write letters and break down walls. Anything at all to show that they care.

But they don't.

They don't do anything.

There is grumbling, of course. There are those dark looks the residents share, those knowing glances. But they say nothing. They drink, they forget. He wants to grab them, all of them, by the shirtfront and shake them until they realize what's going on around them. Their beautiful town – and it is beautiful – is a death trap and it's only going to get worse unless they do something about it.

There's Tak Wallaby, who has been in this place as long as anybody, moving in as a young man when it was just a small housing complex for the government employees working on the weapons testing programs hidden out in the desert. And Hershel, his wife, the daughter of a colonel who grew up playing in the Sand Wastes and the Scrub Lands, places so wild and barren that they only had the names given to them by children and the code letters assigned by the men who clear out the debris after the blast tests.

Then there's their daughter, Megan.

Megan, who is prone to seizures and unable to speak. Megan, with her twisted joints and poorly-performing muscle tone and uncooperative hand. Megan, who is, in every sense, a child of Night Vale.

Bright, charming, witty, lonely Megan Wallaby.

Megan, the embodiment of everything that is wrong with this place.

 

* * *

 

Carlos and Cecil run into the Wallaby family one evening while out for a stroll. They exchange pleasantries with Tak and Hershel, ask Megan how the new school year is treating her. She's skipped ahead a grade, which has done little to improve her already-difficult social life.

Things are great, she tells them. The Calculous teacher is really helpful, and she's enrolled in a Formal Logic course at the Community College. She says all this through a complex set of one-handed gestures on her iPad Mini, which then speaks the words in the deep, accented voice of a grown man.

“Taking college classes! Aw, you're growing up so quickly,” Cecil teases her. “And you certainly sound quite a bit older, too.”

“No,” comes the rumbling voice from the iPad's undersized speakers. “This is ze voice of Nicolas.”

“I forgot to mention that we've added Nicolas the Russian Bodyguard to the family,” Hershel laughs. “At least he doesn't eat much! She's enlisted him as a spokesperson, to prepare for the day she's rich and famous and too busy to talk to all of us poor, regular people.”

“Megan has more important things to do. She vill do the thinking and Nicolas vill do the speaking.”

There isn't much inflection in the statement, but Megan's proud stance is enough to give it an air of almost comical arrogance. Everything about it seems at such odds with the petite young woman in the leg braces and yet is far more fitting that the little-girl lilt she used to use for verbal communication.

Carlos offers to give her a tour of the lab sometime, if she's interested. She beams in her uneven way, and Nicolas announces, “ _Megan vould be honored to accept_ ”.

Carlos manages to keep the smile on his face until they're out of sight.

 

* * *

 

It is while watching Cecil angrily kick the bumper of a tan Corolla that Carlos decides that this clearly somewhat deranged individual is the man he wants to be with. This passionate, sweet, irritable, snarky, darkly sarcastic human being is the one that he wants to wake up next to every morning, to steal blankets from every night, to roll his eyes at every garbage day.

It even makes sense in a strange way: it had been on the hood of Carlos' Honda when he'd first admitted that he was interested in spending more time together, for entirely personal reasons. It was in the front seat of Cecil's Volkswagen, across the awkwardly placed stick shift, that they'd kissed for the first time. And it was in the back of the lab's F150, under the stars, the Carlos first got up the nerve to tell Cecil how much he cared. It's only fair that a stupid Toyota should be the catalyst for realizing he wants to make a more permanent place in his life for Cecil.

It's not logical, and it's not scientific, but it is love.

Like most of his plans, however, there are problems.

If he's going to make his home here, really and truly, he needs to move out of the small apartment above the lab. It's fine as temporary housing, but he didn't chose it. He only took it out of convenience, and he knows that it will never truly feel like his own. He needs the personal satisfaction of making a move, of taking action, of saying that he wants something and then going out and getting it.

He wants to find a place first and _then_ ask Cecil to join him. He wants to show that he's committed to staying in Night Vale, whether or not his boyfriend is ready to take the step of moving in together. He wants to prove that he's in it for the long haul, no matter how long that may be. He thinks he'd be willing to wait forever, if he has to, although he certainly hopes that's not the case.

He's done the assessments and weighed his options and this is still the easiest decision he's ever had to make. The choice was easy, but the search proves much harder than anticipated.

He's sure that brining all his scientific equipment with him to house-hunt isn't exactly typical, but he'll be damned if he's going to put himself in a living situation with sky-high radon levels, or methane leaks, or situated on seismically unstable terrain. Sure, he's learned to take more risks since moving to Night Vale, but he's not stupid.

There are whole uninhabited neighborhoods, abandoned houses on the edge of town where dozens of families just up and left, where nobody lives, despite the convenient location or beautiful architecture. There's a reason for that, and he's not about to second-guess it by putting his life on the line – and certainly not by risking Cecil's.

He looks at houses, apartments, duplexes, even an empty storefront he can almost picture converting into living quarters. But each and every property unnerves him, for one reason or another.

So he remains quiet about his quest for the perfect place to live.

Quiet, at least, until he goes to look at the new condos in town. It's the first truly _new_ development in years and a news crew arrives while he's already in line, waiting to talk to somebody at the rental office. He knows he's been found out: there's no way that Cecil will see the footage and report on this little fluff piece of a story without spotting Carlos front-and-center, looking like a madman, prepared to test the tap water for harmful residues.

As soon as he sees the cameras, Carlos calls the studio.

Cecil, thankfully, says yes.

While Carlos is _definitely_ not buying one of these death traps of a condominium, he can't help but smile – so hard that his face hurts – even as he leaves the rental office empty-handed.

The grin returns the next morning when he wakes, rolls over and buries his nose against the long curve of Cecil's neck.

This is something he could really get used to, he thinks, but never grow tired of.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went through a temporary period when I was unable to speak clearly and found that having "somebody else" do the talking was far more fun... and less mentally taxing than trying to accept my own verbal limitations at the time. But! I don't use any assistive devices in my everyday life and I intend absolutely no disrespect or insensitivity in portrayal of people who do. So if I screw up, yell at me, please.


	7. The Sea Will Boil, and the Sky Will Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cecil is finally coming to grips with what Carlos has known all along: Night Vale sucks.

_The sun may never rise again_  
 _The question ain't if but when_  
 _The sea will boil, and the sky will fall  
_ _The sun may never rise again_

_The silent war has begun_   
_We’re staring down a loaded gun_   
_No refuge found, no solid ground_   
_This human race can’t be won_

_(“[Ticking Bomb](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7jVqok1bqw)” by Aloe Blacc)_

 

_* * *_

 

Things are quiet for a while, comfortable and oh-so-normal. The summer lingers endlessly on as Carlos finally finds a place – a safe place – to call  _home_. Cecil agrees to it, sight-unseen, and they put in an application and a deposit. Together.

It's really happening, he realizes. They're really going to move in together. It's the best Carlos has felt since he was pumped full of high-grade opiates at the hospital.

Work at the lab is between major developments, chugging along at a comfortable speed, and so Carlos allows himself to throw all of his energy into preparations for the move. The days are still long and hot, but there's work to be done – packing and sorting and cleaning. There's something about the excitement of moving forward, of momentum and change, that has given him a feverish drive to accomplish things.

Cecil, on the other hand, seems to be dragging his feet. He's thrilled about the prospect of living together, that much is absolutely clear, but when it comes to actually cleaning out the years worth of crap accumulated in his apartment, he needs to be continuously goaded into doing anything about it.

“You are too distracted,” Carlos chides, slipping away from Cecil, who prefers getting handsy to getting anything done. “You're never going to get any packing done if you keep this up.”

“I don't care,” Cecil says, flippant. “I'll throw it all away. We can get new stuff. Isn't that the point of living together, to start our lives anew, as a couple?”

“Okay, sweet talker, but as much as I enjoy it when you wear my clothes, they don't fit you terribly well and you should probably keep some of your own,” Carlos kisses his nose and wriggles free once more, this time managing to stand and head towards the door. “I'm going to go do some science and I'm not coming back until you're done sorting through the closet.”

He is not above blackmail when it comes to cleaning.

Cecil mimes being shot through the heart, sprawling limply on the floor, as if Carlos has mortally wounded him with this statement. “But,  _Carlos_ –”

“I offered to assist, but clearly I am being more of a hindrance than a help right now. Text me – text me a  _photo_  – once it's clean and I promise I'll drop everything and come right back. And  _then_  we can... um...”

Cecil, still sprawled on the floor, raises his eyebrows and makes a lewd gesture.

“Yes, that,” Carlos says, his face heating. “Now, get to work.”

Cecil doesn't really pay much mind to what he pulls from the dark pit where he stores things he's mostly forgotten about. It's fairly irrelevant if all he needs to do is prove that he's emptied it, after all. He pulls all the hangers from the bar and throws his shirts and dress clothes onto the bed. It's quick work to sort them: if he hasn't worn it in three months it goes into the donation box, easy as that.

He's not lying when he says he's willing to start this new chapter without the baggage of the old. The past exists only for regrets and reminiscing. Getting rid of it is a good exercise, a necessary one.

With the clothes taken care of, he discovers that the deep layer of accumulation in the back of the closet poses the real problem: there is stuff everywhere, and there's no rhyme or reason to it. There are lose items shoved in corners that he probably hasn't touched since he moved into this apartment, and probably never even unpacked from the move prior to that. There's a large, round geode, the kind he used to obsess over as a kid, when he was in scouts. There are brown-crusted rags that apparently never made it in the garbage after the summer when he kept coughing up blood. There are old notebooks, a half-assembled bird skeleton (possibly also from back in his scouting days), a set of woodcarving tools, a box of old VHS tapes and photographs – and a seemingly endless number of other things he'd completely forgotten that he'd owned and has managed to do just fine without.

Most of these finding go into the garbage, some of it is set aside for donation or gifting to his niece, and the rest is gently stacked in cardboard boxes that he swears, he  _swears_ , he'll actually unpack this time around.

That wasn't so hard, all told. He takes an extra minute to sweep the floor, wipe down the doorframe and line the boxes up against the wall. The room is spotless. He texts a picture to Carlos with the caption,

_All done!!_

He takes a moment to feel satisfied before he raises his arms to stretch and, in the process, gets a whiff of himself. The normal scent of soap and aftershave is layered with dust, mothballs and general filth.

As Cecil he begins stripping down to shower he realizes that while he's sorted his other belongings he hadn't even considered what should be done with the clothes he's currently wearing. They're not important, or sentimental. And, truth be told, he'd really rather not have to do another load of laundry.

He rescues his cell phone from the pocket of the ripped jeans and takes a photo of himself stuffing the whole ensemble into the trashcan, making a disgusted face. The bathroom doesn't have a mirror in it, so he checks the photo to confirm that, yes, he looks just as grimy as expected: his face is smudged with dirt and there appears to be a cobweb tangled in his hair. The rest of him is sweaty and shiny under the bathroom lights.

He texts this picture to Carlos as well.

_Actually, not quite done. Definitely need to clean MYSELF now..._

He is entire unsurprised when the curtain is pulled aside four-and-a-half minutes later and Carlos steps in to join him, completely forgetting to remove his glasses before he does so.

 

* * *

 

Carlos comes over after work to discover Cecil sitting in the middle of the bedroom, surrounded by the photographs and video tapes he managed to rediscover earlier in the week.

“How's it going?” Carlos asks, poking his head around the corner as he kicks off his shoes. Cecil's back is to him, but it doesn't look as though he's dressed to go out for dinner as they'd planned. That's okay – Carlos wouldn't mind staying in and cleaning if it means they're getting closer to being ready for the move.

“Are you making progress with all... of your....” Carlos' voice trails off as Cecil finally seems to notice him and turns around. His face is streaked with tears and snot, face blotchy and eyes red.

Carlos immediately drops his bag and rushes to his boyfriend's side, hands flying over face and arms, feeling for injuries, checking to see if he's whole, if he has a fever, trying to assess what's wrong.

“Cecil,” he says, and the massive lump in his throat, born of worry and fear, stops him for a moment. “Cecil,” he begins again. “What happened? Are you okay?” He has a fleeting thought of Janice in the hospital again, lungs filling with fluid, hooked up to a thousand beeping machines. It hasn't happened in months, the medication has been working, but that doesn't mean it won't ever happen again. “Is everybody else okay?”

Cecil shakes his head, and he allows himself to be gathered in tightly and pressed to Carlos' chest. He can hear Carlos' heartbeat through the scratchy cotton of his lab coat and the layers of soft shirts underneath. He tries to time his breathing against it, to focus himself. That works for all of about ten seconds before a sob bubbles up inside of his lungs and forces its way out.

Cecil's shoulders are heaving with the effort of fighting the undertow of emotion that keeps trying to pull him deeper in. He clings to Carlos as if that will somehow be able to prevent him from being swept away. The scared, bewildered sound that Carlos makes in response only makes it that much worse.

“Cecil...” he murmurs. “What's going on? What can I do for you?”

They rock back and forth for a while, the steady motion giving a rhythm and pattern to the uncertainty and fear they both feel. Finally, Cecil draws a few deep, shuddering breaths and releases his death-grip on the lab coat’s lapels, pulling back slightly, trying to find his own center of gravity instead of borrowing Carlos'.

Carlos' face is deeply creased in worry, and there are wet tracks down his cheeks, too. It breaks Cecil's heart all over again, and he reaches up to wipe them away, to kiss them away, while Carlos does the same for him.

“You're scaring me,” Carlos presses his face into Cecil's hand, voice soft and quiet. “Please tell me what's happening?”

“I'm trying to make sense of things that happened a long time ago,” Cecil says, and shakes his head sadly. “There's nothing you can do about the past.”

Carlos always wants to be able to take action – to explain, to solve problems, to invent something that will make life just that little bit easier. He wants to get to the bottom of things, to fix them. But memories and fears aren't something broken or reparable; they’re have to be lived with.

“But it's affecting you now,” Carlos points out, shrugging off his lab coat and wrapping it tightly around Cecil's shoulders. “Please. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Everything is tired and cold and sad, and all Cecil wants is numbness, and sleep. Maybe to drink until he can't see, then sleep. Forever, if he can.

That's all he wants to do right now, but he knows that's not what he needs. What he needs is to not be alone.

“Just... don't leave,” Cecil says quietly. “Stay?”

Carlos doesn’t need to tell him  _'of course'_  or  _'always'_. He just pulls Cecil closer, and lets his actions speak for him.

 

* * *

 

They sleep late and exhausted the next morning and, after a cozy breakfast in bed, Cecil takes Carlos on a tour through the photographs and recordings he's unearthed. He starts by popping a cassette tape into the old VHS player. A title card, written on a scrap of pizza box in thick permanent marker, fills the screen. It reads, “Cecil Broadcast Test (Age 15)”.

The box backs away to reveal the teenage boy holding it. He has the same eyebrows, the same quirk to his mouth as the current Cecil, but he is all lanky awkwardness and jerky movements, still not quite used to the way puberty has changed his body.

“Oh my God,” Carlos claps a hand over his mouth to muffle a gleeful shriek. “Is that you? You're adorable!” He has to keep his hand over his mouth so that he doesn't also blurt out, “We _have_ to have children.”

It's a close call, though.

The boy on the screen sits behind a much-too-large desk and tries to look serious as he reads aloud from the newspaper. It is _the_ most charming thing that Carlos has ever seen in his entire life, and he is falling in love with Cecil all over again just watching the sweet, slightly nervous teenager he used to be, acting out the dreams that did, in fact, come true.

Somebody enters the room, off frame, and teenage-Cecil breaks character from his newscasting persona. “Go away,” he says. “I'm in the middle of making my audition tape.”

An older boy enters the frame. He is taller, thinner, somewhat strung-out looking, but he still shares all the physical attributes that would mark him as a Palmer.

“You're pathetic, you know that?” the boy says. “You're too ugly for television anyway.”

He makes a face and holds his middle finger up to the camera before kicking it over. He laughs, and Cecil shouts angrily at him as he apparently exits the room, slamming the door behind him. The video suddenly changes to some old sitcom, taped straight from the television. Present-day Cecil ejects the tape.

“Your brother?” Carlos hazards with a wince.

“We didn't get along,” Cecil says. “We stopped talking some time when I was in high school. ”

He reaches out and tentatively rests a hand on Cecil's knee, but says nothing. Cecil has only ever mentioned his brother in the most vague, passing way before; now doesn't seem like a prudent time to interrupt.

“I don't miss him,” Cecil says, his tone regretful, but with a forced lightness to it. “He was just a real _jerk_ , you know?”

Carlos nods as if he understands, and he thinks he might, but he doesn't know, not really.

They sit quietly for a time, each picking through the stacks of photographs strewn about the floor. There are very few of Cecil; he seems to have been behind the camera for most of them. For all of the time he spends on television, he's never much enjoyed having his picture taken. Carlos doesn't ask many questions, just listens as closely between the lines as he can while Cecil narrates the images.

There is one that Cecil looks at for a long time, and then hands over without explanation. Filling the frame is a woman – very familiar, but much younger – with disheveled hair, sitting propped up in a hospital bed, cradling an impossibly small newborn. Her eyes are closed and her face is shiny with perspiration, but her smile is serene.

“Is that Janice?” Carlos asks, pointing to the child. “She's so tiny.”

“She came early, way earlier than expected. I tell her she's been impatient since before she was born.”

Carlos laughs, because he knows Janice takes after her uncle with all their righteous indignation, expectant anticipation, and anxious energy. Expecting either of them to sit quietly, or still, is just begging for an ulcer.

“I was thinking about what you've been saying about, well, about Night Vale. The things that happen here,” Cecil says, resting his head against Carlos' shoulder so that they can't look one another in the eye while he talks. “I was thinking about Megan Wallaby, how you were saying you think her family history here might have something to do with, well, the way she is. And I was thinking about my mother. She was fine until, suddenly, she wasn't. She was just _gone_. And my brother....

“I was thinking about, I don't know, about everybody. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it _is_ this town. That's what Night Vale _does_ to people. Or tries to, at least. And I was thinking, what would I do if something happened to Janice? She's had a few close calls, sure, we all have, but... what if something _happened_ to her? To her mom? Or, or – Dana, John, LeAnn, Old Woman Josie?” he implores. “What would I do if something happened to _you_?”

There's no good answer; there's no answer at all.

“I was so naïve,” Cecil sighs, bitterly. “Looking through all these old pictures, watching those old videos, I just– it's as if that was a whole separate life that was never me at all. I've been so naïve, expecting things to happen to me, around me, as if I'm not responsible for any of it, as if I'm not complicit, as if there's nothing I can do.” He shakes his head, hard, as if trying to clear water from his ears. “Foolish, _foolish_ Cecil.”

“Shh, no,” Carlos says, admonishing, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “You are not naïve, and you are not foolish.”

“Maybe not, but I _am_ a reporter. I'm supposed to tell the public what they need to know, I'm supposed to tell them the truth,” Cecil looks at him, his eyes bright and determined. “I'm _supposed_ to fight back.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this still has some entertainment value for whomever may be reading this, despite the fact that Cecil can't catch a break. At all. Apparently.


End file.
